


Slice of Life

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Big Ol' Family of Adorable Bookworms, Domestic Fluff, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Fluff, Greg is Sweet, M/M, Mycroft Melts My Heart, Mycroft is a Softie, Pi Day, Pie, The Devastating Genetic Charm of the Lestrades, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Uncle Mycroft, daddy Lestrade, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-18 00:30:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18109640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: Mycroft comes home to a sweet surprise.In honor of 3.14.2019, Pi Day!





	Slice of Life

**Author's Note:**

> In honor of Pi Day, the triumphant return of Georgie Lestrade! 
> 
> The actual 'what happened after they woke up' from "Out of the Mouths of Babes..." is also on the way but this lil plotbunny showed up and demanded I chase it and Georgie said her Daddy said it was okay.

Mycroft Holmes was not having a bad day.

The country seemed content to run itself for the night and no one had tried to start a world war on his way home, so at Anthea's insistence he'd left work a full hour early, somewhat eager to put his feet up and try relaxing for a change. He wasn't entirely sure he knew _how_ to relax anymore, though the two recent additions to his life (who conveniently shared the same initials) had been diligent in their attempts to teach him.

Greg's typical visitation had been extended out due to Georgie's mother going on holiday with some school chums, though the pair was not due over for the weekend until after Georgie was out of school the following afternoon.

So when Mycroft arrived at the townhouse and noise assailed his ears, he was understandably surprised. Voices, movement, something mechanical. Someone was in his home. Slipping out of his shoes, he moved soundlessly towards the kitchen, thumb poised over the trip button that would release the high tensile steel blade concealed in the shaft of his brolly. A single sustained press of his left index to the screen of the mobile in his pocket would initiate a panic signal that would put the neighborhood into lockdown and have Anthea and/or a small squad of SAS troops here within 5 minutes.

(While both were nearly equal in their lethal potential, Mycroft always secretly hoped for his PA in the rare instance he had cause to use the alarm. The SAS - though absolutely charming - had a bad tendency to muck his carpeting with their boots.)

The faint mechanical whir ceased and a soft thud met his ears.  _What on earth was going on?_ Just as he'd angled his body into a spring position, a very distinctive voice said a very distinctive name.

"Daddy!"

"What is it, princess?"

"I need more flour for the rolling pin, please."

"Alright, Lucybear. Gimme a mo' - just gotta shift to the other arm. Here ya go."

So much tension bled out of Mycroft so fast he almost deflated to the floor like a week-old birthday balloon. Drawing in a few much needed deep breaths, he managed to straighten, slip back along the path he'd just navigated, shed his suit coat and place his umbrella in the stand without a sound.

Returning to the kitchen entryway, he took another much needed draw of oxygen at the state of his typically pristine kitchen.

Bowls of chopped fruit stood next to a cupcake tray filled with small pastry shells. Sticky fruit juice trailed over the counter in lines and drips that resembled a small fructose crime scene. A few tiny drifts of flour and sugar had settled here and there awaiting throngs of minuscule skiers. A large bowl stood detached from the classic stand mixer he almost never utilised, a pale gooey substance clinging in strands and clumps like the aftermath of a sentient lab experiment's recent escape. Georgie Lestrade stood on a stool in rainbow-socked feet, wearing a charming blue apron stamped in sponge-painted clouds as she went at a large lumpy mass with a floured rolling pin. And the charming lass's Daddy was in sock feet, snug jeans and his fading Arsenal tee, some white powder of unquestionable legality dusting his argent locks as Rosamund Watson babbled happily in his arms.

"Might one inquire what you're all doing?" Greg whipped around so fast at the unexpected sound of his boyfriend's voice that his socks slipped a little on the tile floor, and he quickly corrected his balance while Rosie squealed with delight, both at the fun ride and the sight of her beloved (if too rarely seen) Uncle My. Georgie peeked at him carefully over her shoulder, delight plain on her cherubic face. He stepped forward to collect the small girl reaching for him like he was the moon, pressing a kiss to his partner's still slack jaw as he did so. "Or rather, one can plainly see  _what_  you are doing, but may one inquire why you are doing it? And in my kitchen?"

"Pize, My!" Rosie helpfully supplied, and he granted her a quirked brow as he responded in murmured French.

"Vraiment, ma petite?" He settled a solemnly nodding Rosie higher on his side to keep her clear of the counter and anything thereupon she might not be meant to get her hands on or in (which admittedly at the moment might be everything) and placed a kiss in Georgie's hair, prompting the girl to beam up at him. It was an affecting sight, vibrant radiance suffusing him with warmth like a starved winter garden seeing the sun again.

"Sorry for the mess, Mycroft, but we weren't expecting you for another hour or so and Daddy said we could clean up while the pies were baking. It's a surprise, like Rosie said! Unless she meant 'pies' which is still right and there'll be little tarts too so she can munch them."

"I suspect you mean mash them, though her table manners do tend to improve _remarkably_ when she is in our charge." Turning back to the other Lestrade in the room he asked, "And what vital emergency was it this time that prompted the wonder twins to drop her on your doorstep... or more precisely, mine? Not that I am not delighted to see you all."

"They dropped her at mine - some, uh..." He broke off to make a quick stabbing motion out of his daughter's sight line. "Out in Kent that's perked your brother's ears. Mrs. Hudson's day off." Mycroft's silent 'ah' of comprehension abruptly cut off when Rosie took the opportunity to stuff her fingers in his mouth. He extracted the faintly jam-flavoured digits and pressed small kisses to each one to abate her flash of disappointment. Appeased, she curled forward and laid her head on his shoulder, tucking her brow against his neck above the collar. Greg looked strangely affected by the short course of events, but blinked and collected himself back from wherever it was he'd gone. "Ahem. Anyways, Georgie had it in her head we should surprise you with a pie, y'know, cause of... the day."

A quick mental run through important holidays and observances turned up nothing that would have prompted the young Miss Lestrade to surprise him with baked goods, and his face reflected as much when the lady in question tipped her head back to look at him.

"It's Pie Day!" _Still nothing._ "For the number. 14 March, 3.14. We learnt it in school."  _Ah. The mathematical constant, pi. Pie on pi day. What an ingenious method of celebration, especially to engage children's interest._ "Daddy helped me slice the apples for the big pie, and the tarts are strawberry or peach with lemon curd. Daddy helped make the curd and walked me through the crust recipe, but he has to trim the finished thing for me and do the cutouts because the knife is too sharp. Nothing sharper than a butter knife if he's not around until I'm 10."

"Very sage. Well, allow me to return Rosie to your father and I can help y-" But the young miss in his arms immediately whimpered and looped her arms about his neck in quite the admirable chokehold for a toddler. His own limbs went more firmly about her small frame and tugged her imperceptibly closer as his thumbs rubbed little soothing circles on her back and he spent some minutes softly reassuring her he wasn't going anywhere. "Perhaps, as it was meant to be a surprise, I shall take Rosamund with me and allow you to finish while I change into something more compatible with berry juice and sugar crust." 

The laughing Lestrades took command of the kitchen while Mycroft took his settling niece off to his rooms, where he deposited her in a deep armchair with a small puffy picture book as he stepped into his closet to change clothes. Reemerging in comfortable black jeans and a cashmere soft knit jumper in a vibrant royal blue that set off his coloring he collected the girl and carried her back downstairs, settling them on the sofa in the lounge to give her another lesson in _Français conversationnel_ while BBC Radio 4 provided a soothing underscore. Giggles and laughter were just audible in the kitchen hopefully being set to rights, and the aroma of baking crust and fruit was in the air about the time Rosie rubbed her eyes and snuggled against her uncle's chest for a nap. The time until the treats were ready for consumption should prove sufficient for a nap without leaving the child overtired or unable to sleep easily at her bedtime - assuming her errant parents had returned and collected her by then.

He answered emails on his phone until the Lestrades joined the pair in the lounge, followed shortly by Jadis, who padded like a ghostly panther to drape over his shoulders and lay a paw of blessing on the slumbering child's head. Greg sat carefully beside his partner and held a quiet conversation while Georgie curled up on the floor to finish her latest literary find -  _I Capture the Castle_  by Dodie Smith. It was a content and domestic scene, unbroken until the timer signaled the bake's end. Both niece and cat awoke with sleepy blinks and extended stretches, though neither seemed immediately desirous to leave Mycroft's sphere. They stayed in a tidy huddle with Rosie running a gentle hand over Jadis's snowy head and winding the end of her floofy tail round the tip of one small finger without a hint of pull until their hosts proclaimed the treats ready to eat.

Mycroft settled in the breakfast nook with Rosie on his lap, Greg at his side and the ladies of the house sat across as they all indulged in fresh tartlets and slices of warm apple pie decorated with dough numbers and pi symbol cutouts, topped with artisan vanilla bean gelato and paired with suitably sized glasses of ice cold milk. Everything was delicious, the conversation delighted and frequently broken up with laughter and companionable quiet, and a text from John that they would have to spend the night in Kent was met with a cheer.

Dinner was a takeaway from an excellent local Indian/Thai establishment, a broad sampling of low-spice dishes with rice and noodle and plenty of vegetables to be shared between them. Rosie seemed particularly enamored of the curried pumpkin samosas, and Jadis was gifted a few pieces of chicken tikka for presenting a sparkling clean dish of her own. After dinner, the girls settled with a Disney film while the adults cuddled on the sofa, everyone comfortably sated and no one minding in the least that they'd started with dessert. Greg and Mycroft bathed Rosie in Mycroft's ensuite while Georgie showered and got into the spare pjs she kept in her room down the hall. She was allowed to read for an hour before lights out.

Mycroft had acquired a set of the Madeline books - in French, _naturellement_ \- for his niece at Christmas, and read with her on his lap in the comfy armchair until she was off in the land of Nod. Pressing a kiss to her hair before depositing her in the cot he now kept on hand for emergency babysitting duties and setting the monitor on his phone, he traversed the stairs to engage the alarm, make a cup of tea and sit with Greg, who was on the lounge sofa watching the highlights of the day's football matches with Jadis.

Though the day had not been overly long, it had been a full one for all concerned, and they soon found their way back up the stairs to deliver Georgie her goodnight kisses and deposit Her Furry Highness on the bed to watch over their girl. Hand in hand they walked to the master suite, completing their evening ablutions with minimal noise before giving Rosamund a final check and tucking themselves into bed.

Berry banana pancakes for breakfast in the morning, or perhaps crêpes aux fruits et au chocolat. The good French roast for Greg and himself, juice for the girls...

Mycroft stifled a yawn and snuggled more deeply into his beloved's embrace, bliss soaking down to the soul from the numerous points of contact: strong arms holding him close, legs tucked behind his own, a broad chest pressed to his back, bare feet tangling with his and the rhythmic tickle of breath against the nape of his neck.

Three quarters of the lovely ladies in his life peacefully slumbering neath the safeguard of his roof. Memories of pie and conversation, laughter and literature.

As he drifted off to sleep, secure in the arms of the man he adored, Mycroft Holmes was certain life had never been sweeter.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh jeez, I'm about to choke from all the sugary fluff in the air. Gonna go wash it down with a slice of pie and a glass of milk.
> 
> If you haven't gone into a diabetic coma from reading this, feel free to leave kudos and comments. They make me very happy in the absence of a dishy Daddy DI to call my own.


End file.
